


playing house

by magictodestroy



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, CW: Eating Disorders, CW: father/son incest referenced/implied, CW: parent/child incest referenced/implied, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Disordered Eating, Domestic, Eating Disorders, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Trans Male Character, Trauma, cw: incest, pariging, transgender Ging Freecss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-04-06 12:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14056569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magictodestroy/pseuds/magictodestroy
Summary: Pariston and Ging are sharing an apartment because they didn’t have to, but neither of them suggested otherwise.‘So we should try to get an older place to stay,’ Ging had said, bent over his laptop. ‘I’m sick of shitty new hotels that all look the same.’Pariston had smiled. ‘Okay.’Now they sit on the steps in the morning as the sun rises higher in the sky. It’s a beautiful old street with cobblestones and stately trees, but the leaves are turning brown and curled at the edges, and all the flowers are wilting.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s summer and gorgeously hot. Pariston sits on the stoop of the apartment building he’s currently renting with Ging. They have the top floor. It was advertised as graceful. It’s a good sized apartment with two bedrooms, wooden floors, and a slant roofed bathroom with a claw foot tub on marble tiles. It’s old and fancy, and a good place to spend August.

Pariston sucks on a cherry popsicle. It’s only eight in the morning but already hot enough that the popsicle is melting faster than he can keep up. It drips bright, sweet red onto his bare thighs and the cement steps.

Ging sits next to him, chewing on an orange stained popsicle stick. He ate the thing, biting it into pieces. It still dripped down over his hands and on his legs in a couple places.

‘It’s almost like we’re married,’ Ging says.

‘Mm?’ Pariston says.

‘We could be married.’ Ging licks his wrist. ‘This could be like our home, and we could be planning to stay for more than a month.’

‘Oh, sure, sure.’ Pariston smiles at him.

Ging nods. He stretches his legs in front of him and wriggles his bare toes.

Pariston watches two children hurry down the sidewalk together. They have a bag of candy and a kite.

‘There’s no wind,’ Pariston says.

Ging glances at him.

Pariston nods after the children.

Ging looks away, bored. He breaks his popsicle stick in two.

They’re archiving and translating old maps in the city library. Ging’s one of three people in the world who knows how to read them. Pariston’s quickly becoming the fourth. He has an interest in the history of the region. Netero would call it a vested interest, but what does Netero really know about Pariston. It’s a fascinating history; the borders changed rapidly from political shifts unique to the area. Pariston wants to know more about how these shifts happened so quickly.

Pariston and Ging are sharing an apartment because they didn’t have to, but neither of them suggested otherwise.

‘So we should try to get an older place to stay,’ Ging had said, bent over his laptop. ‘I’m sick of shitty new hotels that all look the same.’

Pariston had smiled. ‘Okay.’

Now they sit on the steps in the morning as the sun rises higher in the sky. It’s a beautiful old street with cobblestones and stately trees, but the leaves are turning brown and curled at the edges, and all the flowers are wilting.

Ging throws his stick into a flower pot. He gets up, stretches.

‘Want to take a walk?’

‘Okay.’

Pariston follows him down the street. He’s wearing sandals, but Ging is still barefoot. He doesn’t seem to notice.

They go to the park and walk on the grass and look at the trees and the fountain. Ging walks around in the fountain for a bit and Pariston waits by a bench and pretends he doesn’t know him.

When Ging is done being seven, they lie on the grass in the shade of a tree. The air is very still, and the grass is warm. Pariston holds Ging’s hand, and Ging falls asleep. He stays asleep until the shadow of the tree moves and the sun shines bright on his eye.

‘Let’s go home,’ he says then, and they do.

Ging strips his clothes off as soon as they’re inside. He leaves them in a pile by the door. He eats plums and stares out the kitchen window. Pariston eats buttered toast with cheese and smoked salmon. He drinks green tea with honey and flips through a magazine and doesn’t do the dirty dishes. The apartment is constantly untidy, and that’s fine. He moves stuff over when he needs to take pictures.

‘It’s like playing house,’ Ging says.

‘What’s that?’

‘Living together.’

‘Okay.’

Pariston doesn’t know what Ging is getting at. Maybe he’s annoyed that Pariston doesn’t do housework. Maybe he’s tired of moving around. They’re leaving at the end of the month, and who knows what they will do then.

Pariston flips through the magazine, tracing his finger over clothes he likes.

‘Are you lonely, Ging?’ he says, not looking up.

‘Everyone gets lonely, Paris.’

‘You could marry me. I wouldn’t be opposed.’

Ging laughs. ‘Sure.’ He steals the rest of Pariston’s toast and carries it to the bathroom.  
Pariston listens to the tub run and watches the place where Ging had been standing.

‘I really do love you,’ he says.

‘Tell that to the judge,’ Ging says, mouth full.

‘I’ll tell it to our divorce lawyer.’

‘Why? So you can get my stuff?’

‘You’re not emotionally available.’

‘And you’re not mentally stable.’

Pariston smiles. ‘You don’t listen to me.’

‘You don’t clean.’

The light is soft in the kitchen. Pariston watches it glint off the glasses waiting by the sink. The walls are white and the floor is grey hexagon tiles. It almost looks like a prison.

He hears Ging get in the tub and splash water around. Pariston finishes with his tea and the magazine and goes to his bedroom. The light is coming in bright over his sheets and floral comforter. He sits on the bed and watches the light pool on his palm and dapple over his legs. The air is still, but the leaves are still moving.

He goes into the bathroom. Ging is sitting cross legged in the tub in a few inches of water. He pours it over himself and splashes it up against him.

‘Is it cold?’ Pariston says.

‘Yeah.’

‘I might have to do that. We should have gotten a place with a shower.’

‘Mm. Too late for that now.’ Ging finishes splashing himself and gets out. He pats his body with a towel, not getting very dry, and then dries his feet well and goes to his room. He sits on his towel on the bed and slathers himself in lotion.

Pariston sits down behind him. ‘I’ll get your back.’

‘Thanks.’

Pariston rubs Ging’s back slowly. He massages his shoulders and neck and along his waist. He watches the way Ging’s body moves with each breath, the shift of his bones beneath muscle and skin as he bends to rub his feet.

‘What are you doing after this?’ Pariston says.

‘There’s some bird a friend wants me to go see. I guess it eats gold.’

‘Oh. That’s fun.’

‘Yeah.’

Ging shifts again. He rubs his thighs and across his stomach.

‘I’m not used to being this clean.’

Pariston giggles. ‘I guess you wouldn’t be.’

Ging glances at him over his shoulder. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Gotta do something.’

‘Fine, it’s a secret then.’

‘Don’t think you have anything.’

‘Hmm.’ Pariston kisses Ging’s head. ‘I guess you can think that then.’

Pariston leaves Ging and gets in the tub with lukewarm water. It’s hot, but cold water is too cold. He lets the tub fill up with about three inches of water and pours it over himself with a cup.

The bathroom is pretty. It has the white marble tiles and the mirror with the golden frame. There are two windows, both covered over with gauzy pink curtains. There’s a black scrolled iron chair.

Ging comes in.

‘I’ve been meaning to kiss you,’ he says without warning.

Pariston stares up at him. ‘Okay.’

Ging kisses him quickly, closed lips pressed to the corner of Pariston’s mouth. He takes a breath and then kisses him again, softly this time. He puts his hand in Pariston’s hair and kisses him, lips parted. Ging’s eyes are open, but so are Pariston’s. They stare at each other as they kiss.

Ging stops.

Pariston gets out of the tub. He dries himself quickly and then drops the towel over the chair. He lifts Ging up against him. Ging is slippery from the lotion, and Pariston is still damp from his bath. He slips a little on the tile as he carries Ging to his room, but he doesn’t fall.

Ging wraps his legs around Pariston’s waist and his arms around his neck. He kisses his face and his ear and whispers his name.

Pariston lays Ging down on the bed and gets on top of him. He holds him down and kisses his face and shoulders and chest and arms. He laces their fingers together and kisses all of Ging’s fingers.

The sunlight shines hard on both of them. Ging closes his eyes, and Pariston turns his face away. He kisses Ging’s chest and bites and sucks at his nipple.

Ging touches his hair and his back and says ‘Paris’ and says ‘please.’ His fingers skim over Pariston’s arm. He squeezes Pariston’s ass and his thigh and rocks up against him.

Pariston pushes down on him, and Ging spreads his legs apart. Pariston fucks him. He fucks him, and they both get hot, and when Pariston is done, Ging says ‘okay.’

Pariston lies on top of him, out of breath, face pressed to Ging’s chest.

Ging says okay again, even softer this time. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Pariston kisses his mouth.

‘Why does this always happen?’ Ging says, even though he started it.

‘I’m tired,’ Pariston says. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night.’

Ging touches his cheek.

‘That’s something I’d change about my life,’ Pariston whispers. ‘I’d like to be able to sleep.’

‘You can sleep,’ Ging says. ‘They aren’t expecting us until one.’

‘Hmm.’ Pariston runs his fingers through Ging’s hair. ‘What would you change about your life? If you could change anything.’

‘Dunno.’ Ging scratches. ‘It’s a stupid question.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Pariston gets up and closes the blinds. He lies back down and strokes Ging’s cheek.

‘You’re an easy person to fall in love with,’ Ging says. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Oh? Are you in love with me?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm.’ Pariston smiles. ‘That’s disappointing.’

‘But it would be easy.’ Ging stretches.

‘You’re a hard person to fall in love with,’ Pariston says.

‘But you still did.’

Pariston laughs. ‘Okay.’

Ging gets up. ‘Gotta pee.’

Pariston waits for Ging to come back, and when he doesn’t, Pariston falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Pariston wakes up to Ging stepping lightly on his face. He smiles down at Pariston, foot over Pariston’s mouth, nose, one eye.

‘Morning!’ Ging sings.

Pariston grabs him by the ankle and swings him down. Ging falls laughing.

‘You mad?’

‘Annoying,’ Pariston says and tucks Ging against him. The morning air is cool, and the trees shiver in the breeze.

Ging stays against Pariston’s side, chewing on the edge of the sheet. He tugs at it gently and watches Pariston out of the corner of his eye. He looks like a little puppy, all wriggly and chewy and cuddly and warm and ridiculous.

Pariston kisses the side of Ging’s face. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Ging nods. His eyes are bright, and he watches Pariston closely.

Pariston lays back against his pillows. He shivers. The room is colder than he would have expected, and the stillness of the morning amplifies the sound of his heart beating.

He didn’t sleep well. He never sleeps well unless he’s drugged, and he went off his meds without a doctor’s supervision because he was sick of being always tired. Now he’s still tired. He’s always tired.

Pariston kisses Ging again. Ging is lying quite still, sheet in his mouth. He tugs at it once in awhile, but his eyes are droopy. He’ll probably fall asleep again.

Pariston fell asleep late. He was up working on a paper. Then he couldn’t sleep because his father’s hands were travelling over his skin, and if he went to sleep, they would really get him. When he fell asleep, they did. And he read emails in his sleep between him and his father that specified in the signature that they had had sex.

And every email that he sent out said ‘Pariston Hill had sex with his father.’ on the bottom in bold letters so you wouldn’t miss it. Sex. Was it really sex if you were a child? Was it really sex if you cried about it and the memory of it followed you down like a weapon.

The only memory he had felt in the dream was shame. He’d been ashamed and horrified and embarrassed that anyone would know. He’d felt responsible. He always felt responsible.

Ging turns in Pariston’s arms and presses his face to Pariston’s chest. Pariston holds him and his stomach turns. The dream is following after him. His father’s hands are haunting his body. His father’s eyes. His father’s voice that trembled against his skin and broke him open.

Pariston kisses the top of Ging’s head. His hair is softer than it looks, and he presses his face to it, smells Ging. He smells warm. Warmth has a scent to it, and it’s gentle and comforting. Ging always smells warm. He feels warm. His body is like a furnace, and his skin is hot.

‘We’re supposed to be getting up,’ Ging murmurs as he falls asleep.

Pariston laughs at him. Ging sleeps a lot. He gets tired. He gets bored. His mind is more interesting than most of the world. He gets locked up in it. Pariston strokes Ging’s face. His lashes are long and thick and flicker as he settles down. Pariston rubs his arm, feeling the muscles. Ging’s strong. Ging’s fingers are calloused and hard.

The dawn is coming slowly, creeping pale blue over the dark blue sky. It feels soft against the window frame. Pariston wants to get up and close the window, but Ging’s lying on his arm, and he doesn’t want to move him.

Pariston’s feet are cold, and he can’t get them warm. He holds the blanket over himself and Ging and rubs his feet together. The wind smells of the sea. The salt is pungent on his lips.

Ging whimpers in his sleep. Pariston cradles his arms around Ging and puts his leg up against him. They lie still as the sun rises, and Pariston falls asleep again.

Pariston wakes up first, and Ging is warm in his arms, basked in sunlight. It’s past noon, and the sky is bright and full of illuminated clouds.

‘I just want to be happy,’ Pariston whispers.

Ging stirs. ‘Hmm?’ He blinks at Pariston, sleepy still.

‘It’s late for waking up,’ Pariston says.

Ging sits up and kicks at the blanket. The sunlight is bright and hot over their lower bodies. It makes their legs shine, and the white blanket and white sheet become too bright to look at.

‘I guess it was just a day to sleep,’ Ging says.

Pariston rubs his own arms. He watches the shadows of the leaves over the floorboards. He wonders when he’ll feel alive. He’s floating away.

Then Ging’s arms are around him, and suddenly he’s in the room with Ging, and they’re both alive and flesh and blood.

‘I’m hungry,’ Ging says, and Pariston pats his hip.

‘We’ll eat.’

So Ging jumps up and races to the kitchen, and Pariston follows slowly, and the whole apartment is shaky, and the words are printed on the walls and the floors:

Pariston Hill had sex with his father.

‘What do you want to do?’ Ging says. He dabs at his lips before eating another plum whole. He pulls out the stone after, and it’s stained purple like Ging’s lips and the tips of his fingers. Ging drops the stone onto the plate next to four others. His plate is dusted with croissant flakes.

‘I want to swim,’ Pariston says.

He wants to drown. He imagines the pain of it. The drama. The sensational headlines.

Pariston Hill, dead at 24. Drowned in a Swimming Accident.

There would be no mention that Pariston Hill had sex with his father. Just outrage and tragedy. News pieces on how to spot drowning. News pieces on how to stop drowning. News pieces on what a beautiful child he was. What a beautiful, beautiful child.

‘Yay,’ Ging says.

Ging loves swimming. He’s like a fish. He can hold his breath for twenty minutes. He dives and comes back with pearls.

 

 

 

 

 

They go to the beach, and they walk along it until they find a spot that is empty. It’s between two peninsulas of granite boulders. Black igneous rock intrudes into the granite on the left side. There’s only a sliver of sand.

Ging strips naked, and Pariston does too. They sit on the sand and watch the water tumble towards them, frothy and green.

Ging pours warm sand over Pariston’s lap and along his legs. He smiles at him and drinks his soda.

Pariston strokes Ging’s knee. His skin is soft, and the hair on his legs is fuzzy. It glints in the sunlight.

Pariston looks down at his shaved legs. He keeps them shaved and paints his toe nails. They’re pink right now. He lies down on his stomach on the sand, and Ging takes this as an invitation to climb over him.

Pariston doesn’t mind. Ging’s cute. He holds onto Pariston and whispers, ‘Ha ha ha,’ into his ear.

‘Are you going to get me?’ Pariston asks.

‘Got you!’ Ging says.

‘Are you going to eat me?’

‘Uh huh.’

Ging nibbles on Pariston’s shoulder. ‘Num, num, num.’

Pariston closes his eyes. ‘Okay, Ging.’

Ging lets go, suddenly bored. He races into the water and dives. He’s gone quickly, and he comes up far from shore, bobbing in the strong waves.

Pariston gets up and wades into the water. It’s warm and choppy, and it splashes up persistently against him. He wades out to his waist before he swims.

He swims out until he’s far, far into the ocean and their bag on the beach is a small red spot. He lays back in the waves, letting them carry him. He can’t see or fathom the bottom. The waves keep coming, lifting him, tossing him.

The red spot on the beach grows smaller. The rocks are thin now, not boulders but pebbles. The trees grow together into a green line along the shore.

It’s beautiful, and Pariston floats, arms out, head back, letting himself be with the ocean. If he drowned now, if he really drowned, he doubts he would feel it.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

That night they lie together a tangle on the sofa, naked, feeling each other’s skin. The television plays, volume low, and Ging drifts in and out of sleep as Pariston strokes his hair.

Pariston flips through the channels and stops on one of his films. He was eight when he was in it, and he thought the part very boring. He didn’t want to be the hero’s scared child. He didn’t want to be kidnapped. He didn’t want to be tied and gagged. He didn’t want to cry in front of everyone.

He’s always been weak.

Pariston carries Ging to bed and lies with him, curling his body around Ging’s. He leaves the television on. The explosions on the film are comforting.

When he sleeps he has a nightmare. He wakes in the morning and watches Ging do his stretches. Why did he have another nightmare? Why does he have to have so many nightmares. This one was too bad to think about. To say. He closes his eyes and wonders when he’ll be a real person. He feels like a fake person held together by tape, but ready to fall to pieces.

Ging gets him orange juice in bed, and Pariston drinks it slowly. Ging sits beside him, sipping his orange juice. He strokes Pariston’s hair.

‘Bad dreams?’

‘Yeah.’

Ging puts his head on Pariston’s shoulder. ‘I wish I could have saved you.’

Pariston closes his eyes. His throat is tight.

‘I would have done anything to be saved,’ Pariston whispers. ‘I wanted anything else. Anything.’

‘You’re here now,’ Ging says.

It’s true. Pariston is here now. And he’s never going back there. But that doesn’t seem to matter. The point is that it did happen, and now he has to live with it happening over and over and over in his head. He can’t escape that. That’s what makes it so fucking hard. And no one seems to realise it.

Ging stretches down, head on his knees, hands wrapped around his feet.

Pariston mimes choking himself and laughs when Ging sits up, suddenly worried.

‘Don’t,’ Ging says.

Pariston laughs again. ‘It’s tragic how much you care about me.’

 

 

 

 

In the warm shade of the evening, Pariston sits with a book he’s not reading. He watches as Ging makes dinner in the little kitchen. Ging with his hair caught back with a headband, Ging in a little green apron, Ging dropping cherry tomatoes into their salad.

They are playing house. They’re playing at normal. They’re pretending that they could be something less than what they are.

Pariston doesn’t know why. What they have is more than anything most people could dream of. And yet it feels so much like a burden sometimes. Always running, never satisfied. If they were normal people, they would have Gon and a comfy apartment. They would be married, and Gon would be in school, and they would go to concerts together after they’d hired a babysitter.

But Gon was taken by Ging’s cousin to be normal. And they’re not. It’s better for Gon. Pariston is glad he’s away being a regular child. He hopes he never becomes a Hunter.

‘Taste.’ Ging holds a piece of steak out to Pariston.

Pariston tastes the meat. ‘It’s good,’ he says, around the food.

Ging puts the steak on top of the salad and sets the table with water and wine. They sit and eat, and the sun sets lower and leaves orange light running through the window, over the far wall.

Ging puts his feet on Pariston’s lap. ‘Talk to me.’

‘About what?’ Pariston sips his wine.

‘Anything.’

‘Hmm...’ Pariston looks out the window. He likes the way the sun is hitting the clouds, making them pink and tinged with orange. ‘I wonder how Gon is doing.’

Ging chokes on his salad. ‘He’s fine. Why?’

‘Do you ever see him?’

Ging looks away. ‘I left some things...’

Pariston nods. Ging’s probably spying on them. He doesn’t care any more. He watches the wind blowing through the trees.

‘I want to die,’ he says without thinking.

‘Yeah?’ Ging raises an eyebrow.

‘I don’t know.’ Pariston smiles and dabs at his lips with his napkin. ‘I want something more.’

‘Like what?’

‘I want to be… chairman.’

Ging laughs. ‘Good luck getting that from Isaac.’

 

 

 

They play twister after dinner. It’s the only game without missing pieces in the apartment. Ging wins, twice, three times.

‘It’s not fair,’ Pariston says, falling again. ‘You’re supposed to lose. You’re shorter.’

Ging chuckles. ‘I’m stronger. And more flexible.’

Pariston wins the third time because Ging has lost interest and is falling without thinking. Pariston sighs. It’s annoying how the only times he wins against Ging are when Ging is bored. But that’s how Ging is. And how they are together.

Ging kisses Pariston good night in the living room and goes alone to his bed. Pariston watches him go and sits in the living room on the abandoned twister mat, staring at the crack of Ging’s half open door.

Ging comes out and throws a pillow at Pariston. ‘Stop being a creep!’ He goes back to lie down, and Pariston watches Ging long after Ging has fallen asleep.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
